WHY YOU SHOULD VISIT THE RIVIERA VILLAGES.
Leica Cameras for travel.
Welcome, everyone, to the sun-drenched shores and pastel-hued panoramas of Cassis, nestled like a gemstone along the glittering necklace that is the French Riviera. But before we dive headfirst into this Mediterranean marvel, let us first chart our course, for even the most anticipated of journeys must begin with an hour or two of planning. For those of you with a penchant for the scenic route—or perhaps an aversion to the indignities of airport security—fear not, as Cassis is just a leisurely train ride away from the bustling metropolises of Marseille and Toulon. Simply board the sleek TGV at Paris's Gare de Lyon, sit back, and prepare to be whisked away on a journey through the picturesque Provençal countryside, where vineyards stretch as far as the eye can see and sunflowers nod and wink in silent approval. But should the songs of the open road prove too tempting to resist—and who could blame you, with the promise of impromptu picnics and roadside vistas aplenty—then by all means, rent a car and embark on your own odyssey along the winding coastal roads that lead to Cassis. Just be sure to pack a sturdy map—or better yet, make sure Waze is installed on your IPhone (other brands are available) as the abundance of speed cameras, narrow streets and labyrinthine alleyways of this ancient village have been known to frustrate & confuse even the most experienced of travellers .
First, a bit of background for those who may not have had Cassis on their radar, as we approach our destination, let us pause for a moment to reflect on the storied history of this charming enclave. Legend has it that Cassis was founded by the Phocaeans, those intrepid seafarers of ancient Greece, who sought refuge from the rough seas in the sheltered coves and tranquil harbors of this idyllic coastline. And though the centuries have brought conquests and conflicts aplenty—most notably the brief but tumultuous reign of Julius Caesar, who famously declared Cassis to be "the most charming of all Gaulish villages"—the spirit of resilience and joie de vivre that defines this community has never wavered. Fast forward through centuries of sieges, skirmishes, and the occasional invasion by pirates—because what Mediterranean paradise would be complete without a dash of swashbuckling adventure—and we arrive at the modern-day Cassis, where the only marauders are those on the hunt for the perfect seafood platter. But enough with the history lesson, for we have arrived at our destination, and the delights of Cassis await! As you wander the sun-dappled streets and mingle with the bronzed beauties and jet-setting sophisticates who call this village home—or at least their vacation home—be sure to take note of the myriad architectural wonders that dot the landscape, from the ancient Romanesque church of Saint Michel to the elegant Belle Époque villas that cling precariously to the cliffs above the harbor.
Now, let's talk cuisine. The gastronomic delights that await you in Cassis! From freshly caught fish served with a side of sea breeze to decadent pastries that practically beg to be photographed, this little slice of Riviera heaven is a culinary cornucopia. And fear not, friends, for even the most discerning palate shall find satisfaction amidst the plethora of cafes, bistros, and Michelin-starred restaurants that line the cobblestone streets. But I digress. I came not merely to feast—but to explore! And what better way to do so than by boat? Yes, my friends, prepare to set sail on a nautical adventure worthy of the most intrepid of explorers (or at least those with a penchant for sunbathing and Champagne). Whether you opt for a leisurely cruise along the coastline or a thrilling excursion to the nearby Calanques—those rugged limestone cliffs that plunge dramatically into the crystal-clear waters—you're sure to be treated to views so breathtaking, you'll forget all about the exorbitant price of your boat rental.
Of course, no trip to Cassis would be complete without a bit of culture—or at least a half-hearted attempt at it between sips of rosé. Fear not, for this quaint village boasts its fair share of historical landmarks and cultural attractions. From the ancient Château de Cassis, which looms ominously over the harbor like a guardian of bygone eras, to the charming Musée Municipal, where you can brush up on your knowledge of local history between bites of pain au chocolat, there's no shortage of opportunities to feel vaguely cultured before returning to your sun lounger.
And let us not forget the beaches! The beaches of Cassis, where bronzed bodies mingle with the occasional nudist and sandcastles stand as monuments to our fleeting existence. Whether you prefer the bustling atmosphere of Plage de la Grande Mer or the more secluded shores of Anse de Corton, one thing is certain: you'll spend far more time debating which swimwear to put on than actually swimming. And speaking of the harbor, dear reader, let us not forget the beating heart of Cassis—the bustling port where fishermen ply their trade amidst a cacophony of seagulls and sunbathers vie for the perfect spot on the quayside. Here, you can while away the hours watching the comings and goings of the local fishing fleet, or perhaps charter a boat of your own and set sail for the nearby Calanques, those rugged limestone fjords that have inspired artists and poets for centuries.
But our journey is far from over! Beyond the sun-drenched shores of Cassis lie a veritable treasure trove of hidden gems just waiting to be discovered. From the medieval hilltop village of La Ciotat, where time seems to stand still amidst the winding alleyways and ancient ramparts, to the cosmopolitan charms of Aix-en-Provence, where fountains splash and café terraces beckon, the delights of Provence are yours to explore. And, so we come to the end of our journey through the sun-drenched streets and sparkling waters of Cassis. It may just convince you that your next trip may be in this direction. Bon voyage!
All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q3 and it’s RAW images (.DNG’S) were processed in Lightroom.
As usual if you would like to leave your thoughts or comments plaese do so in the box below the last image. I do enjoy hearing from you.
Live well!
M.
Arles in Winter: Where Van Gogh Meets Viennoiserie.
Leica Cameras for Travel.
Arles. The jewel of Provence, where the Rhône gently kisses the Mediterranean, and where, on a particularly crisp winter morning, I found myself parked adjacent to two long and narrow river cruise boats, both were tied up north facing at the dock. I sat wondering if my car was closer to Van Gogh's bedroom or the nearest patisserie. In its infinite wisdom, the sun had decided to grace those of us up with the birds, casting a golden hue over the town that even the most skilled Instagram filter couldn't replicate.
The streets of Arles at this hour are a curious mix of the sleepy and the over-caffeinated. Artists, those brave souls, are already out with their sketch pads, capturing the light that once inspired Van Gogh to, well, let's say, get overly enthusiastic with his self-portraits. I strolled along the quay, my breath no longer visible in the air, a reminder that while the calendar insisted it was winter, the temperature, hovering in the high teens, seemed to have missed the memo.
In the heart of the town, the scent of freshly baked croissants waged a fierce battle with the aroma of strong coffee. The local boulangeries, those temples of butter and flour, were opening their doors, emitting a warmth that seemed to beckon every soul in Arles. I watched as people, clearly more accustomed to the early hours around here than I, made their pilgrimage for their morning sustenance. There's something almost religious about the first bite of a croissant in a French bakery; it's like a sacrament but flakier.
As I wandered, I stumbled upon the Roman-built coliseum, or as I like to call it, the 'Arena of the Absurdly Old'. It's remarkable to think that this structure has been standing since 90 AD, hosting everything from gladiator battles to, more recently, tourists with selfie sticks. It's a testament to Roman engineering and modern-day marketing. I half expected a centurion to pop out offering guided tours, but it was just a man in a slightly less impressive uniform selling postcards.
The boutiques in Arles are a delightful distraction. Each one is unique, like snowflakes, if snowflakes were made of lavender soap and hand-painted ceramics. I wandered into one, pretending for a moment that I was the kind of person who could nonchalantly buy a €200 scarf without blinking. Sensing my internal struggle, the shopkeeper smiled and said, "It's okay, I too dream of being outrageously wealthy."
Lunchtime in Arles is an experience in itself. The cafes and bistros come alive, their tables spilling onto the sidewalks. I chose a spot in the sun, the kind of place where you can sit with a glass of local wine and pretend to write a novel. The menu was a delightful parade of Provençal classics – ratatouille, bouillabaisse, and something involving snails that I wasn't brave enough to try. The food, much like the town itself, is unpretentious yet sophisticated, like a farmer in a tuxedo. All that to say, after that tooing and froing, I decided to have an espresso and wait to have lunch later in the day.
The streets took on a more leisurely pace as the late morning pressed on. The artists had packed up, their morning's work done, replaced by couples strolling hand in hand and so many dogs, each looking like it had just stepped out of a French film about existentialism and baguettes.
As the sun descended, casting long shadows across the ancient stones, I found myself back at the river. The cruise boats were being prepared for their next voyage by a small Army (more appropriately, Navy) of young men working very hard to make everything ship shape and Bristol fashion. As I drove from the dockyard parking lot along the Rhone to Avignon, I counted my lucky stars. You see, the last time I was here, it was pre-covid, and the river cruises were packed with relentlessly embarking throngs of tourists rolling down the gangways to invade the city as the Romans had thousands of years previous. In reality what I observed back in the summer of 2019, were hundreds of new-age Romans, or as my friend Jaquie puts it, the “salad dodgers”, stumble down the gang plank onto terra firma. As I got further & further out of town, I couldn’t stop thinking about the absurdity of trying to capture the essence of a place like Arles in a few hours or even a 3,000-word blog post.
In the end, Arles is a town that doesn't just sit in the landscape; it is the landscape. It's a place where history and modernity dance a slow waltz, every corner holds a story, and every pastry shop is a potential love affair. As I neared home, I mused that Van Gogh had it right all along – sometimes, the most ordinary places are the most extraordinary, especially when viewed through the lens of a winter morning sun.
SIX MONTHS A YEAR STARTS NOW!
Leica Cameras for travel
Bonnieux, my adopted home away from home. If you have never heard of it, don't fret – neither had I, until a twist of fate and a slightly misguided sense of adventure (or was it a mid-life crisis?) landed me here. This hilltop Provençal village that seems to have been designed by a particularly nostalgic set of gods with a penchant for puzzles and steep inclines.
You see, Bonnieux isn't just a village; it's a full-blown aerobic workout. I've lost more weight walking to the bakery here than I ever have in a gym at home. The place is perched – and I use that term with the total weight of its gravity-defying implications – on a craggy hill in the Luberon, offering views that stretch endlessly until they bump into some other quaint village or an olive grove that's been around since Julius Caesar was in short pants.
The history? Oh, it's rich. Bonnieux was a big deal when the Popes were in Avignon, probably because they needed a scenic retreat from all that divine responsibility. The old church at the top of the village is so ancient that I half expect to bump into Crusaders or Knights Templar comparing GPS coordinates. And let's not forget the Roman bridges and roads. The Romans, those eternal show-offs, left behind the Pont Julien – a bridge still standing after two thousand years. I'm convinced it’s due to sheer stubbornness.
Fast forward a few centuries, and Bonnieux, like every self-respecting medieval French village, got itself embroiled in the religious wars. Catholics and Protestants squabbling over God's fine print led to some rather spirited town meetings, I imagine. This historical mishmash has given the village an architectural diversity that's an absolute nightmare for anyone trying to pick a coherent colour scheme for their window shutters.
Then came the agricultural revolution, with cherries and olives becoming the stars of the show. The terraced landscapes here are a testament to what you can achieve with a bit of land, many stones, and a complete disregard for your back’s well-being.
The 20th century saw Bonnieux, like a retired movie star, fade a bit into the background. But then, as if in a plot twist, it found itself rediscovered, like an old vinyl record in a hipster's hemp shoulder bag from a “vintage shop.” Artists and writers, presumably tired of Parisian traffic and existential angst, decided Bonnieux was the place to be. Cue the restoration of historic buildings and the revival of those agricultural traditions, now considered quaint.
Today, as a part-time resident and full-time observer, I watch with amusement and a touch of pride as Bonnieux parades its history with the casual elegance of a catwalk model. The streets here don't just wind; they meander with purpose as if to tell you, "Slow down, you're missing the point."
Culturally, the village is a kaleidoscope. It's inspired more paintings and books than a village this size rightfully should. Walking through its lanes, you half expect to stumble upon an art easel at every corner or a writer musing under every tree.
So, why Bonnieux? Why did I, an admittedly eccentric apprentice writer who loves the quirky and the absurd, choose to plant roots here? It's simple. Bonnieux isn't just a place; it's a character in its own right, with a story that keeps unfolding in the most unpredictable ways. It's the kind of place where history isn't just remembered; it's lived in, laughed in, and occasionally tripped over.
In conclusion, come to Bonnieux if you're ever in Provence, looking for a village that combines breathtaking views with a workout regime fit for a Roman legionnaire. Just remember to bring good shoes and a sense of humour. You'll need both.
Don’t get any bright ideas and decide upon arrival that this place would also suit you down to the ground. Don’t let me catch you entering one of the three local real estate agents. I moved here to escape you, so find your own village. No hurry, sit; I can still pour you a glass of Rosè while you study your map!
As always, please leave your thoughts or any comments below. I do look forward to hearing from you.
Live well!
M.
All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S camera and 24-90mm lens.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. AIR CANADA STYLE.
Leica Cameras for Travel.
Vancouver Island. The name itself conjures images of rugged, rainforested landscapes and coastline so dramatically beautiful that it stops your very breath. It's the sort of place where one expects the unexpected, where nature still holds a firm grip on the sensibilities of the people. However, nestled in our cozy little home, with the relentless patter of rain providing a background symphony, I was grappling with a wilderness of a different kind: the impenetrable thicket of customer service at Air Canada.
Now, dear reader, you must understand something. It is the run up to the Christmas season, a time renowned for miracles happening in the most unexpected places. Yet, it appeared that the Air Canada Aeroplan ticketing office was immune to any form of holiday magic or, indeed, basic telecommunications efficiency.
It’s time once again for us to retreat to our Provencal hilltop. The task was simple, or so it seemed. Book a flight from Vancouver to Paris. A routine activity that “Chantel the ticket agent”, & the first voice of promise on the other end of the line after a 90-minute serenade of hold music that could only be described as the least successful tracks from the 1980s, managed to complicate beyond reason.
"Oh, the flights are very busy at this time of year," Chantel imparted, in a tone suggesting I had just asked to be transported to the moon in a pedal-powered spacecraft piloted by Neil Armstrong and Tom “Maverick” Cruise. I pictured her there, in a cubicle decorated with motivational posters about reaching for the stars, utterly oblivious to the fact that her lack of helpfulness was rapidly ensuring I wouldn't even leave the ground.
Just as we seemed to be getting somewhere, somewhere being a relative term when one has repeated their Aeroplan number sixteen times, the line went dead. Not just dead, but 'ceased to be, joined the choir of the invisible' dead. I stared at the phone, the silent betrayer in my hand, contemplating the cosmic unfairness of it all.
I embarked on the Sisyphean task of redialing, navigating the automated menu with diminishing patience and rising dread. This time, it was Marie Veronique (her name may have been) who answered, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of someone who had been steeped too long in customer complaints and cheap office coffee monitored closely by “Terry Tate” the office linebacker”. If you wish to take a quick peak into what that environment looks like, please click the link below for some real life examples!
Now, you might imagine that being a high-tier frequent flyer with Air Canada would afford some cushioning from the abrasive indifference of understaffed customer service during the run up to the holiday season. You would be wrong. So profoundly, achingly wrong. Marie Veronique, with the casual disinterest of a cat watching the wrong documentary, informed me that not only were there no convenient flights, but she also seemed to imply this shortage was somehow my fault.
The hours waned, my mobile phone threatening to overheat, and my ear was developing a distinct cramp that I was certain hadn't been there earlier that morning. The rain seemed to be letting up outside, but the stormy frustration indoors was reaching its peak.
It's humbling, isn't it? Here you are, a seasoned traveler with more air miles than Santa Claus, being subtly patronized over the phone by two individuals who hold the fragile thread of your holiday plans between their fingers, ready to snap it with no more than a bored sigh.
By the time I had rebooked – on a flight with more stopovers than a presidential campaign trail and at the approximate cost of a small diamond – I realized something profound. Chantel and Marie Veronique (not their real names), in all their infuriating un-helpfulness, had done more than just ruin my afternoon. They'd provided a stark reminder: no matter how grand one's status, we are all but mere mortals in the face of customer service's capricious gods.
And so, dear reader, as you embark on your holiday travels, remember this: pack patience, for it will be tested, long before you need to decide on which toothbrush to take. This process had taken way too long and my will to live. I felt drowsy and was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I sensed I was nodding off.
The journey continued, as most do, with a misguided sense of optimism that perhaps the worst was behind us. How quaint that notion was. We arrived at the airport, bags laden with the kind of necessary items one needs to survive a trip that included layovers long enough to ponder the meaning of life. There, at the departure gate, we were to be greeted by Francis – though "greeted" is perhaps an overstatement.
Francis, you see, had the distinct air of a man who had wanted to be anywhere else on the planet other than dealing with the likes of travel-weary, question-armed passengers. He didn’t so much check our boarding passes as he did begrudgingly acknowledge their existence, offering the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, or frankly, any part of his face.
But the real treat, the pièce de résistance, was yet to come. The Maple Leaf lounges, oh, the sanctuaries for the weary and privileged traveler, enclaves of comfort and care. Or so one would think. At Vancouver, and later in Montreal, it became abundantly clear that "sanctuary" had been redefined to mean a place where apathy reigns supreme, and the snacks have seen fresher days.
The staff, evidently following what must be a comprehensive training program in nonchalance, barely registered our presence, much less our status. It's a talent, really, to be so consistently disinterested, and they were virtuosos. One might wonder, in moments like this, where the hefty fees and taxes one pays go. Surely not into the staffing budget, or indeed into any aspect of the customer experience.
No, one could muse, those funds are perhaps funneled directly into the essential aviation fuel that keeps this great airline aloft – or possibly into federal tax dollars providing luxurious accommodations for the likes of Prime minister Trudeau on his whimsical jaunts to visit the Aga Khan. Or perhaps a massive west coast beach house used as a retreat for windy walks and skipping stones across the tidal pools of Tofino’s beaches with Melanie Joly (too soon)? One of life’s great mysteries, indeed.
And yet, as our journey finally, mercifully, continued towards its Parisian conclusion, a revelation dawned, casting a warm, if slightly resigned glow over the entire experience. A soliloquy of sorts bubbled to the surface, a ponderous voiceover to the slapstick comedy of errors this adventure had been.
Oh, Air Canada, with your indefatigable ability to deflate the buoyant spirits of even your most loyal passengers, how do you stay afloat? It's simple, really. Your secret weapon: the existence of competition so remarkably below par that next to them, you appear a shining beacon of adequacy. Yes, WestJet, we glance in your direction with a knowing nod.
For it matters not how you are treated in the warm, indifferent embrace of Air Canada. The alternative could indeed be worse. And so, we continue, gluttons for punishment, or perhaps just hostages to geography, loyal in our disgruntled way. Because no matter how high one's status, in the grand game of Canadian airlines, we're all just playing in the minor leagues, hoping for a call to the show that, we suspect, will never come.
But here's the rub, the twist in the tale, the unexpected morsel of hope in our traveler's buffet of despair: from the time we arrived at the airport it had all been a dream. A concoction of the sleeping brain, a mirage of misadventures that hadn't actually transpired — just yet. My eyes flickered open, phone still nestled against my ear, hold music quietly serenading me, as reality dawned with the softness of a feather yet the shock of cold water. There I was, still anchored firmly, if not somewhat deflatedly, in my living room, not a single bag packed, not a single apathetic employee endured.
The ordeal with Chantel and Marie Veronique had indeed happened and was a certified reality, a dance with bureaucratic absurdity that no amount of wishful thinking could erase. Still, the future, oh that sweet unwritten symphony, remained a slate upon which no nightmare had etched its signature. What lay ahead could still be the smooth sail we hope for in the deepest reservoirs of our travel-addled hearts. Yet, I feel that everything that I dreamed was simply just time reliving itself based on the hundreds of similar negative interactions I have endured over years of travel around the world with A.C..
The beauty of this revelation, dear reader, is the succulent suspense it brings. Here we stand, at the precipice of possibilities, the brink of adventures untold. What Paris holds, what Provence promises, remains shrouded in the mists of Tomorrow. Could it be that the universe, in its infinite jest, has tucked away an upturn in our fortunes, a serendipitous twist waiting to erupt from the ashes of our airline-induced despair?
So, I invite you, no, I implore you, to join me on this journey of hopeful redemption. Stay tuned, for the road winds ever on, and in its curves, we might just uncover vistas of joy to dwarf the valleys of tribulations we've trudged through. Let us stride forth, hand in weary hand, towards that shimmering possibility that the path from Paris to Provence, sprinkled with the gold dust of French allure, can soothe the sting of any customer service scuffle, can heal the wounds inflicted by the talons of travel's trials.
Because, in that hopeful, perhaps naive heart of the traveler, lies the eternal optimism that the journey — unpredictable, tempestuous, and beguiling — will, in its final turn, make everything splendidly, breathtakingly better. After all, isn't that what keeps us exploring, even when the world seems bent on sending us in circles? Ah, to travel is to live, live through the chaos, and emerge, perhaps slightly ruffled, but undeniably alive in the tale that awaits its telling.
I hope you have enjoyed this post, different as it may be. Please leave a comment, as feedback is the best opportunity to learn from mistakes and make positive change. Said Air Canada customer service never!
Live Well!
Mark
Wandering Nice with my Leica Q2: Stories in Every Frame
Leica Cameras for travel.
When people think of France, Paris often steals the spotlight. But for those in the know, Nice, nestled on the stunning French Riviera, is a gem waiting to be discovered. And what better companion to have on this adventure than my trusty little travel camera (Leica Q2)?
Before diving into the wonders of Nice, I must mention my trusty travel companion. The Leica Q2. This camera is akin to a magic wand, encompassing immense power in a sleek design. Its intuitive nature made capturing moments on the go feel seamless. The Q2 was a silent observer, capturing the essence of Nice without intruding upon its natural rhythm. I have several other camera choices, but when I want to move about without drawing attention to myself with a camera that has the capability to capture images from 28mm to 75mm in a small package, the Q2 is the obvious choice.
Nice: A Palette of Pastel Dreams. The city itself seemed to be painted with a dreamy brush, often awash in pastel colours. Pastel-pink façades juxtaposed against soft lavender skies and streets lined with sun-bleached yellow buildings felt like walking through an artist's masterpiece. The sun setting over Nice transformed the city, with coral oranges and muted purples reflecting off windows and the serene waters. Every nook and cranny whispered stories, and the Leica Q2 ensured each tale was told in its full pastel glory.
A Dive into Gatorade Blue. Beyond the shores, the Mediterranean beckoned with its alluring shade of blue – reminiscent of a fresh bottle of Gatorade. This vibrant blue seemed unreal, almost like the sea had absorbed the very essence of the sky. Diving in, I felt enveloped by this refreshing hue, and above, the sun created a dappled dance of light on the water's surface. It wasn't just about swimming; it was about immersing oneself in a liquid canvas, and the Leica was there to chronicle every splash, every ripple.
Faces of Nice: Meeting a Legionnaire. Nice is teeming with life and characters. People who have seen seasons change, who have tales hidden behind every smile, every wrinkle. And sometimes, as a photographer, you chance upon someone who makes you stop and wonder. I came across a gentleman one morning on the Promenade des Anglais, a striking figure in a sea of tourists. Dressed impeccably, his demeanour hinted at a past full of discipline and pride. The sharpness of his attire contrasted with the weathered lines on his face, and I couldn’t resist capturing him in a frame. Later, curiosity got the better of me, and I returned the following morning, hoping he would be there. I felt compelled to introduce myself and hopefully learn a little about the man who stood out from the crowd. As we spoke, I learned a little bit about his military service. Though he was guarded about the specifics, his posture and pride hinted at a possible association with the French Foreign Legion. The Legion! A group shrouded in mystery and romanticism. I couldn't help but consider his evident battle scars with the tales of valour and romance that have surrounded the Legion for years. Perhaps I have come closest to meeting a real-life Beau Geste.
Nice through the Lens of my Leica Q2. In Nice, the interplay of light, people, and architecture creates a canvas that changes with the moments, and my Q2 was there to ensure I didn’t miss a single image. Its ability to render colours, from the azure blues seas to the pastel shades of Nice’s streets, was consistently astounding. And if you're like me, wanting to immortalize those moments, there's no better tool for the job than a camera like the Leica Q2. For in the end, travel is as much about the stories we bring back as it is about the places we visit.
Nice is the definition of a beautiful and opulent colour palette. My hope is that these qualities will someday attract you to visit the French Riviera. I am personally most happy when I wander from place to place with my favourite travel camera. Nice is one of those very few destinations that ensures that my Leica Q2 will never be called upon to capture a monochrome image.
Thanks for dropping by Walkacrossitall! I am always grateful for you sharing your precious time.
Live Well!
Mark
IT’S BEEN 7000 YEARS!
Leica Cameras for travel.
The humble olive! A fruit (yes, my friend, it's a fruit, not a vegetable) as mysterious and complicated as your recently divorced friend’s relationship status on Zuckerberg’s evil Facething. The olive's history is so entwined with human civilization it's practically writing its own book of never-ending history.
First off, the olive tree's origin: a tale as convoluted as an overcooked French ratatouille. Some say olives first graced the earth in the Eastern Mediterranean (Greece) around 7,000 years ago. Others argue its ancestors were gallivanting around Asia Minor. What's certain is that the olive tree has seen more history than the kitchen walls of my favorite falafel shop in the Muslim quarter of old Jerusalem.
Let's travel to ancient Greece, shall we? They used olive oil like it was going out of style (or, more accurately, coming into style). A hot bath with olive oil? Check. A dollop of oil in their food? Of course! Anointing themselves to look all shiny and godlike? You bet! Even their athletes were slathered in it, making them glisten like greased lightning.
Oh, but we're not done! Let's not overlook the brilliant Italians who used the olive as an opportunity to create something to serve with bread. The audacity! Who would've thought that pressing the life out of an olive could result in a culinary masterpiece? "Extra Virgin" and nothing else.
We can’t ignore the Spanish, who took one look at olives and thought, "Let's put this in everything!" They've cultivated an art form out of olive growing and turned their countryside into an olive oasis. A landscape dotted with olive trees as far as the eye can see.
Now, if you thought the olive's talents were restricted to food and skincare, brace yourself for its foray into home décor. Yes, that rustic-looking charcuterie board you just bought for an obscene amount of money? “Probably” made from olive wood. Those kitchen utensils that have a certain je ne sais quoi? Olive wood again! That fancy pipe you're using to smoke whatever with? We Canadians have a government that now encourages our “best and brightest” stoners to get in on a piece of their very own olive wood action. Yep, olive wood; it's as if these trees are begging us to use every part of them.
Think of an olive as a compact little universe of flavor. Each one is like a plot twist in your favorite TV show. Will it be bitter? Will it be sweet? Will it be stuffed with something inexplicable, like blue cheese or garlic? The suspense is real!
But alas, dear olive, what's the use of all this fame and fortune if you end up pitted and jammed into a jar, only to be retrieved during cocktail hour? The irony is palpable. A fruit with such a rich history reduced to a mere hors d'oeuvre. It's like finding the Mona Lisa on a postage stamp.
But wait, there’s more (Shamwow reference time) I've neglected the pièce de résistance of our olive odyssey: the Provençal olive market vendors! Oh, these marvelous men, masters of the olive, orchestrators of oil, tantalizers of tapenades. Dressed in their rustic ensembles (or jeans and t-shirts), they lure you into their stalls with smiles as oily as their wares and charm that could melt a pat of French butter on a freezing winter’s day.
In the bustling markets of Provence, you'll find an extravaganza of olive delights. Want an olive mix that combines the best of both worlds (or, in this case, the best of all worlds)? They've got you covered. From the sweet Picholine to the robust Tanche, each blend plays with your senses. The tapenades? Oh, don't get me started! These are not mere spreads; these are symphonies in a bowl. Whether it's a mixture of olives with capers, anchovies, and herbs or a delightful concoction of sundried tomatoes, garlic, and perhaps a whisper of truffle oil, each taste is an escape to the sunny hills of Southern France. It's a love affair between your taste buds and a Mediterranean breeze, prepared for your trip home in a “safety-first” plastic container guaranteed to prevent spillage 83% of the time.
So, the next time you visit your local supermarket, spare a thought for the olives in aisle three. Behind those glass jars lies a world of intrigue, passion, and culinary excellence. Embrace the contradictions, the unexpected surprises, and the unmistakable taste of the olive. After all, isn't that what life's all about?
Raise a glass to olives, dear readers. Or better yet, raise a martini adorned with one. It's the least we can do for a fruit that's been with us through thick and thin, through salads and sandwiches, through victories and defeats.
(Note: All images were captured with the self-confidence of someone who “thinks” he knows something about olives and his Leica Q2.)
Feel free to comment below if you, like me, find yourself inexplicably drawn to the world of olives. Or if you just like martinis. Either way, your thoughts are welcome and very much appreciated!
Live well!
Cheers…
M.
OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT!
Leica Cameras for travel.
Ah, France! The land of love, fine wine, and pastries to kill a diet at twenty paces. But more than that, France is also the land of Brocantes - glorious gatherings of what I like to call "other people's SHIT." My wife calls it treasure hunting. I call it a relentless pursuit of tetanus.
The Brocante adventure begins bright and early with "Le Bargain Hunter" emerging from their habitat, armed with a coffee-stained checklist and an overpowering aroma of desperation and Gauloises cigarettes. These fine folks, whose fashion sense could best be described as "Walmart chic," have truly mastered the art of chain smoking in confined spaces and giving zero F#cks.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for a bargain, but my wife's love for Brocantes is something else entirely. It's a passionate, feverish love, like a French romance novel but with more dust and rust. I've seen her bargain with carpet sellers and pottery market traders with the intensity of a French general storming the beaches (ah, the subtleties of French military history, n'est-ce pas?), and all for what? A slightly chipped vase that probably once contained the ashes of someone's Uncle Henri.
Oh, the people! Let's talk about them. They're the true spectacle. One must admire the dedication of those who arrive even before the rusty gates swing open, like seagulls on the scent of yesterday's rock-hard baguettes. They peer through cracks, sizing up the loot, their faces twisted into masks of greed and anticipation. Bargain hunting or horror movie audition? You decide.
The Brocante sellers are a breed apart. They know the regulars; they've seen it all. Their smiles are as genuine as the "antique" Rolex watches they sell. If you're a newbie, be warned, these people can smell your innocence, and they'll charge you double for the privilege of taking home a slightly off-kilter chair that's been through the French Revolution (and not in a museum).
And then there's the stuff. Ah, the stuff. Tables groaning under the weight of mismatched tea sets, creepy porcelain dolls that seem to follow you with their eyes, and paintings of cats playing poker. My wife calls it character. I call it a reason to get therapy.
You see, I love my wife, and I have the mismatched furniture to prove it. Our second-floor living room is now a shrine to the Brocante gods, each piece with its unique quirk and questionable history. Our house is like a museum; only instead of "please don't touch" signs, there are price tags I'd rather forget.
And as for situational awareness? Forget it! It's a battlefield out there. People jostling, pushing, pulling, with no regard for personal space or social niceties. The French are known for their sophistication, but at the Brocante, it's every madame and monsieur for themselves. The only rule is that there are no rules, except perhaps the unspoken one: if you sneeze, you've bought it.
In the end, you'll leave the Brocante with a car full of someone else's memories, a wallet significantly lighter, and the satisfied smile of someone who knows they've bested you. Your wife will be on cloud nine, planning the next adventure into the world of tarnished treasures, and you'll be wondering if it's too early for a glass of Rosé.
So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself in France, by all means, visit the Eiffel Tower, take a cruise down the Seine, but don't miss the true French experience, the Brocante. Embrace the chaos, the dust, and the dubious bargains. If you're lucky, you might even find a treasure or two. Or, like me, you'll simply learn to smile, nod, and appreciate the eccentric beauty in the things – and people – that no one else wants.
This is simply life in France when you are trying to furnish a very old home. C’est la vie. I trust you have enjoyed this midweek check-in.
All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2.
I hope you have a moment to comment below!
Live well.
M.
NOT FOR THE LACTOSE INTOLLERANT.
Leica Cameras For Travel
Behold, dear friends, the captivating chronicles of an audacious cheese voyager, not interested in products from the land of the free and home of the Whopper, but from places where cheese is considered indulgent rather than a questionable product from a laboratory. Picture it: a realm where cheese originates from pampered bovine creatures and organically mountain-raised goats, not from dubious aerosol cans.
Provence, a sun-kissed paradise nestled in the south of France, is the ultimate sanctuary for those who appreciate the artistry of milk alchemy. Our adventure commences in the village of Bonnieux, an understated hilltop village, where the intoxicating aroma of cheese dances through the air in competition only with the fields of surrounding lavender. The strong odours draw you into its irresistible, savoury embrace like bits of baguette into a super gooey fondue. Undaunted, when I arrive back after some time in exile on Canada’s left coast, I always choose a local signature cheese, Banon, an oddity that might seem extraterrestrial to the less experienced in this region.
As the shopkeeper passes over this fascinatingly wrapped orb of dairy delight, she does so with an unmistakable Gallic smirk, a non-verbal "You're not a disciple of the church of Cheez Whiz, are you?" My reassuring smile speaks volumes: "Rest assured, madame, I am not a sinner from the parish of Velveeta."
As if the unique Banon experience isn’t enough, next comes the quintessentially Provencal tradition of market day, a sensory extravaganza where one can truly explore the incredible variety of local cheese. Amidst the clatter and chatter of locals, stalls overflow with artisanal cheeses, each lovingly crafted and beckoning you to try.
Navigating the bustling marketplace, you're like a kid in a fromagerie, with every cheese more enticing than the last. There's the robust Pélardon, the subtle Crottin de Chavignol, the full-bodied Cabécou, the tangy Tomme de Chèvre, and the delicate Pouligny-Saint-Pierre – that’s just the goat cheese. Then, there's the marvel of sheep cheese – the sweet and nutty Ossau-Iraty, the earthy Roquefort, and the beautifully complex Brocciu from nearby Corsica. Lastly, for the bovine enthusiasts, there's the soft and creamy Boursin and the ever-sophisticated Brie de Meaux. It’s a veritable United Nations of cheese, all nestled within the vibrant French tapestry of a Provencal market day.
Brimming with new purchases, we retreat to our little home just 30 meters down the street, a haven just far enough from the guided tours and the (why so angry?) Belgians. Here, amidst the tranquillity, I indulge in my first wedge of Banon. Its taste is a symphony of flavours, delightfully creamy with a tart undertone, powerful enough to reduce even the staunchest Kraft cheddar die-hard to tears.
Over the years, I have ventured through an odyssey of cheeses. There's the titan Roquefort, an intimidating heavyweight capable of sending your taste buds into a tailspin. Then there's the ethereal Camembert, softer than a whisper yet carrying a cornucopia of flavours, and don’t forget Comtè. What about the various goat cheeses, so fresh they practically gambol on your tongue?
During this never-ending journey, my thoughts often wander to those innocent souls who’ve yet to look beyond the confines of processed cheese slices or perhaps even the Costco mega block of Cracker Barrel. Those unsuspecting masses, wandering from place to place with stops at the souvenir shops (obligatory t-shirt purchase), blissfully unaware of the culinary delights they're missing. It's a moment of creamy reflection, akin to the realization that some people believe reality TV is, well, reality.
At the termination of every local market day, my whicker shopping bag bursts at the seams, and I realize I am undergoing a further existential gastronomic evolution. I am no longer a mere self-declared cheese buyer with imposter syndrome but a true connoisseur of the curd. Will friends grasp the profound depth of my assuredly slow but considered metamorphosis? Or will they just stop and ask, "Mark, FFS, why are you carrying around so much cheese in that bag? Are you mental?”
So, to you, dear friends, I say: embrace your inner adventurer and set your course for Provence. Try the most formidable, nose-twitching cheese you can find. Perhaps, invite those unaccustomed friends, the ones who have experienced "culture" through a shore excursion or a trailer park in Arizona. Watch as they inevitably succumb to the irresistible allure of French cheese. And when that day dawns, with a well-aged wine and a knowing smile, say, “I told you so.” Because you, mon ami, are the cheese whisperer. You’ve influenced hearts and minds. Shoulders back, stand tall. Go out there, head held high, and smash it! Maybe one day you’ll trade in that desk for a market stall laden with fromage…
A big thank you for dropping by Walkacrossitall. Please leave a comment if you have a spare moment.
All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2 and SL2-S with the 24-90mm lens.
Live Well!
Mark
ADJUSTMENT THROUGH ART.
Leica Cameras For Travel
As promised, today is Wednesday, and I am keeping my word to cobble together some thoughts and observations twice a week while I travel again this summer. Slipping into the rhythm of Provence is akin to mastering the art of watercolour painting - it's elusive, delicate, and if you're too hasty, you might just blur the lines. My initial days here in the valley were a whirlwind of trying to capture every hue and every shade, a futile attempt to encapsulate the essence of Provence into a single summer's canvas. But Provence, with its timeless wisdom and laid-back allure, gently guided our brush strokes. The thing is that I know better. I have to keep the notion that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I actually live here for a good portion of the year now. I need to adjust to “mellow” faster. A work in progress. I blame my haste over the last week on wanting to host my brother to the best of my ability. It is his first time in this region, and I felt as though we needed to “walkacrossitall” as soon as we arrived in Marseille from Barcelona.
Provence doesn't merely suggest tranquillity and enjoyment; it insists on it, like a seasoned artist insisting on the perfect blend of colours. It has taken me a full week to finally understand the language of the cicadas, the whisper of the Mistral, and the rhythm of the sun-dappled vineyards. We have just recently learned to breathe deeply, to let the scent of lavender fill our lungs and the taste of rosé linger on our tongues. We have learned to let go, to let Provence seep into our canvas and our souls until we are no longer otherwise consumed but a part of the vibrant tapestry itself.
The Luberon Valley, with its warm hues and vibrant landscapes, is a masterpiece unto itself. It doesn't need comparisons or benchmarks; it simply is. Our local boulangerie, with its golden baguettes and flaky croissants, was a revelation in itself. Thank you for opening your doors every morning at 6:30. Thank you for your perfect espresso and pain au chocolat. Both of these indulgences are my mood altering drugs.
As you may have read in earlier posts, I am a sucker for art. And even more so when I can get out of the heat to enjoy it. The transition from the languid lifestyle of Provence to the vibrant world of Dutch art was as seamless as a Van Gogh brushstroke. The underground gallery in Carrières de Lumières, nestled in the heart of Les Baux-de-Provence, was our gateway into this mesmerizing world once again. I think I have been to this venue at least half a dozen times now. The cool, dimly lit caverns were a stark contrast to the sun-drenched landscapes outside, but they held treasures of their own. I apologise now for writing about this wonderous place on more than one ocasion.
The Dutch masters, from the portrait artists of the Golden Age to the impressionists like Van Gogh, came alive on the rough-hewn walls of the quarry. Their works, projected in larger-than-life dimensions, enveloped us in a world of vibrant colours and evocative imagery. We found ourselves lost in the intricate details of Rembrandt's portraits, the play of light and shadow in Vermeer's interiors, and the swirling skies of Van Gogh's landscapes.
The gallery was a time machine, transporting us back through 400 years of art history. We walked through the streets of 17th-century Amsterdam, stood in the middle of a sunflower field under the Provencal sun, and gazed at the starry night over the Rhone - all within the span of a couple of hours. It was a sensory overload but in the best possible way.
As we emerged from the gallery, blinking in the bright sunlight, we carried with us a newfound appreciation for the Dutch masters and their contribution to the world of art. And as we sipped our Heineken (Dutch beer with Dutch art, why not?) at the gallery café, we couldn't help but marvel at the magic of Provence - a place that seamlessly blends the tranquillity of nature with the vibrancy of culture.
The scent of lavender and Provencal herbs permeated the air, a fragrant reminder of the region's rich agricultural heritage. The fields of lavender, stretching as far as the eye can see, are a sight to behold. The remnants of the recently harvested vibrant purple blooms swayed gently in the breeze, creating a mesmerizing tableau that was as soothing to the eyes as the scent was to the senses.
The local market in Saint Remy was alive with vendors of Provencal herbs - thyme, rosemary, basil, and of course, lavender. Each stall was a delight, the air around it heavy with the scent of fresh herbs. We spent hours exploring, picking up bundles of herbs, fresh produce, and the occasional bottle of local rosé. I think these next two locals should be giving a masterclass on how to enjoy every second on this planet!
Just bring your camera, and perhaps, a sketchbook.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
All images were captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 24-90mm lens.
Live Well!
M.
Images from the exhibit follow.
CLIMBING BACK ON THE CHEVAL.
Leica Cameras For Travel
Embracing the charm of Provence was as easy as slipping back into my old linen shirt; this region practically serenades us with its azure skies, warm sunshine, and a chorus of cicadas that sounds suspiciously like Edith Piaf singing "La Vie en Rose" as she wanders through the vines.
These loonie-sized (Canadianism) tree insects are the ones who serenade the valleys of Provence, their melody echoing through the olive groves and lavender fields, a soundtrack to our escape from the monotonous humdrum of the daily grind. With a healthy appetite for the joie de vivre that the South of France promised, we settled in on an epicurean adventure in the wonderous Luberon Valley, our refuge from the seemingly dystopian reality of Trudeau’s folly.
Nestled in the ample lap of the Luberon mountains, this (thankfully) overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make us forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the copious amounts of local rosé.
As we journey through the region, every winding turn of the rustic country roads teases our senses with a new spectacle - a tableau vivant of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant vineyards to the rocky cliffs, everything bathed in the golden Provencal sun. We half expected Julia Child to pop out from behind a vine to hitch a ride in our Renault. Once settled in the back seat, she could begin narrating our journey into the culinary wilderness.
On this latest visit, our first spectacle of the Luberon Valley was a quaint local produce market with such an array of colors and scents that even a seasoned gourmand (aka Fat Bastard) like me could explore with childlike wonder. We walked past stalls of ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of market vendors, providing the perfect soundtrack to our gastronomic documentary.
History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Romans once tread here, proudly leaving their mark on the pristine landscape. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered ruins and ancient vineyards, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.
Our 30th wedding anniversary dinner was at a charming little restaurant known as L’Arome, tucked away in a cobblestone alley of our little village. The chef, a jovial man with a mustache that would make Hercule Poirot green with envy, served us a meal that was nothing short of a symphony on a plate. The local wine flowed like the nearby Sorgue River, and the laughter and conversation echoed around the terrace like a well-rehearsed orchestra.
Now, don’t let Provence’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of Paris, but that’s akin to comparing a fine Bordeaux with a rather introspective Coors Light or “NASCAR nectar”. And here's a thought, could it be that Provence intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep the hordes of tourists at bay? Maybe, maybe not. But one thing's for sure, the triumphant crème brûlée at the local dingy dive bar is even top-class. You would be a fool not to travel with the Michelin Guide, but as always, trust in your own senses and follow your nose!
As I bid you farewell once again from this pocket of tranquillity, our hearts and minds continue to fill with warm and vivid memories. A trip to Provence might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapters in our lives. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Provence being Provence. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera. My intention going forward is to post on Sundays and Wednesdays. I hope you enjoy and continue to be ever so slightly entertained.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
Live Well!
Mark
p.s. All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S / 24-90mm lens and the Leica Q2.
MY 10TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.
Discovering the Timeless Charm of Saignon: this Quaint Provençal Village is definitely a must if you ever decide to visit the Luberon Valley. Nestled in the heart of the region, Saignon is a picturesque village that seems untouched by the hands of time. Steeped in history, this charming place has been gracing the Provençal landscape since the Roman era. It has seen the rise and fall of empires, the comings and goings of royalty, and the evolution of France itself. Fast forward to the present day, Saignon continues to be a delightful destination, offering an authentic Provençal experience for those seeking a serene and idyllic getaway.
Getting to Saignon is a breeze, as this enchanting village is just a short drive away from the larger town of Apt. From Apt, hop on the D943 and follow the signs to Saignon. As you wind through the scenic countryside, you'll be captivated by the sight of centuries-old stone houses, lush vineyards, and verdant fields of lavender. Upon arriving in Saignon, prepare to be enchanted by the village's narrow cobblestone streets, charming squares, and friendly locals.
Saignon's close-knit community consists mainly of around 1,000 residents, who are known for their warm hospitality and dedication to preserving the village's rich heritage. Many locals are engaged in traditional occupations such as agriculture, with a focus on wine and olive production, as well as artisan crafts and small family-run businesses. The village's homes are emblematic of Provençal architecture, featuring time-honored stone buildings with colorful shutters and terracotta-tiled roofs, creating an enchanting atmosphere that perfectly complements the village's historic charm.
Once you've settled in, take the time to explore the village's rich culinary scene. For a mouthwatering Provençal meal, head into any of the local cafes or restaurants you walk by. In any one of them you'll enjoy delicious dishes crafted from fresh, local ingredients with friendly warm and attentive service. After a satisfying meal, set out to discover Saignon's historical gems. Be sure to visit the 12th-century Church of Notre-Dame-de-Pitié and the picturesque Rocher de Bellevue, where you can take in panoramic views of the Luberon valley. Wander the quaint streets and don't miss the beautifully preserved stone fountains that add to the village's magical ambiance. From ancient Roman ruins to the heartwarming charm of its residents, Saignon truly has something for everyone. I do look forward to reading about your thoughts in the comments section below.
Live Well!
M.
p.s. All of these images were captured with the Leica SL2-S and both the 21mm and 90mm F2 APO lenses.
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SMALL TOWN IN THE WORLD!
According to Travel & Leisure magazine, in 2023, Gordes is considered the world’s most beautiful small town. Right off the bat, I have to tell you we do not live here, so we have little room to boast. But, and this is a big but, when we open our bedroom shutters in the morning, we do stare directly at Gordes across the Luberon valley. In many ways, I owe Gordes a big thank you for playing a massive role in bringing me to this valley in the first place. It was, in fact, Gordes and the village that we currently call home that forced our hand.
I may have mentioned this several times in the past. Still, without stumbling over a movie written by my literary hero, directed by Ridley Scott, starring Russell Crowe and filmed almost entirely in both villages, this would have never happened. That movie is called “A Good Year.” Some, like me, have watched and re-watched it countless times to admire the scenery through the lens of masterful cinematographers. Conversely, some folks didn’t enjoy it very much. Now, I will be the first to say that if you lust after movies about transforming robots, car theft or Keanu Reeves jumping through the space-time continuum to safely evade bullets, you should absolutely give a Good Year a miss.
This is what Gordes really is. Gordes is surely the most captivating hilltop village in Provence, with a rich and intriguing history. Dating back to the Roman era, Gordes was once a significant center for agricultural production and commerce in the region. Over the centuries, the village has seen its fair share of conflicts and upheavals, including wars and invasions. Today, Gordes is a charming destination that attracts visitors from all over the world with its stunning architecture, quaint cobbled streets, and breathtaking views of the Luberon mountains. As a travel photographer, I find myself drawn to the village's unique beauty and fascinating history, and I never tire of capturing its essence through the lens of my Leica.
As I sit here writing, the mistral winds are blowing a gale and it is time for us to close the shutters to both stop the chilly drafts as well as protect the windows. I can’t begin to describe how ferociously the wind can gust here. As legend has it, the mistrals are the cause for many locals to plunge into the depths of despair during the winter months when the winds last for weeks. For those who recover, the knowledge that warmth and calm are soon to restore life to normal in the Luberon, is all they can ask.
Thank you so much for dropping by and I look forward to hearing from you in the comments below.
Live Well!
M.
p.s. All of these photos were captured with both the Leica Q2 Ghost and SL2-S.
TO ABSENT FRIENDS!
Today started out like most in the Luberon. Up too early, a double espresso, and then the big decision. Do we wander down to the Boules Court? Do we really want to hang our TRX trainer and resistance bands on the iron vine trellis for an old folks workout? Or do we scrap that nonsense, jump on the bikes, and peddle to Lacoste? When we arrive there, we can have a light breakfast or “petit déjeuner” consisting of baguette, salted butter, lavender honey and local preserves. That simple start to the day always arrives alongside a Spanish orange juice from our Valencian brothers, a second espresso, and a wonderful smile.
The location for this regular excursion is Cafe France. Their terrace clings to the granite cliffside 40 meters above the street below and provides a vista of the valley that’s second to none. Our server has become quite familiar with this ritual and always makes us feel very welcome when we arrive sweaty and a little short of breath. Sometimes minutes can turn into hours sitting there gazing towards the rising sun.
I have been separated from photography for most of this trip. Usually, it's my happy place and serves as the best tool to take me out of myself. Moments of clarity & peace manifest themselves when I focus, compose and consider nothing but what stands before me.
The camera’s viewfinder provides a very affective therapy that can't be replicated, and today was a great reminder to include it in my day more often.
Lacoste is a place for a total immersion in the arts. Art students, artists in residence and locals with flair and creativity. As you wander the cobbles, you can glance in studio windows, stroll through sculpture, and lose yourself in a world that I've always fancied but never had the opportunity to embrace. Life gets in the way, and it never strikes you when you are young that you can earn a living being creative.
I envy the Savanah College of Art and Design students who learn, develop and create here during their "year abroad." It appears from the outside to be a fantastic way to be educated. The importance of recognizing a well rounded education is more than just growing as an academic and an artist. The value of being a traveler completes the trifecta and could be the cornerstone of a life well lived.
It was eerily quiet here this morning. What curiously permeated today's visit was the feeling of oneness. The feeling that today, those inside these castle walls are living a solitary existence. Today was an alone day. I stopped to consider this under the shade of a large and well situated olive tree for a while. Olive trees are a godsend when temperatures push past 36 degrees in the morning.
Sometimes no matter where you are. No matter how beautiful your surroundings. No matter how satisfied you are with your lot in life, it can be still hard to live it alone. So whether it's an old man occupying one chair of three, a cat with a sill all to himself, or a sculpture standing or even flying in solitude, sometimes it can be better to have the company of a friend.
I consider myself very lucky, as I live this privileged life with my best friend of 31 years. For that I am truly grateful. Yet, I raise a glass to those who are alone as well as those they miss. I hope that just like my last photo of this series, a friend is never too far away when you really need a hug.
To absent friends!
Live well!
Mark
If you have some time please leave a comment . I love to hear from you.
P.S. There are over seven billion people on this planet. I only like 13 of them. Maybe that’s ok too? :)
All of these images were captured with a Leica M10-R
AN UNDERGROUND LAIR TO REMEMBER.
A couple of days ago, we returned to a place that is fast becoming one of our favourite stops for a quick shot of culture. As we all know, culture comes in many forms, but in this particular case, it comes in the form of visual art. Margaret Wolfe Hungerford once said, "art is in the eye of the beholder." Along with past visits to such awe inspiring places as the Accademia, the Uffizi, the L’ouvre, the Tate Modern and the Rijksmuseum, we are beholding to this art.
We love to frequent this venue when we are near Avignon, not just for the exhibits but, frankly, the experience of just being in such an amazing and unique environment. I will provide web links for hows and whys at the end of this post, but for now, I will try to do it some justice from my point of view.
Carrières des Lumières was a once-thriving stone quarry in the village of Les Baux-de-Provence. By the hundreds of thousands, people flock here to visit the village and the ruins of its hilltop chateau built in the 12th and 13th centuries. We were tipped off to this wonder about 7 years ago and are now indebted to those that shared it with us. It can be a challenge to find parking upon arrival, but patience and persistence usually win the day. The whole reason to make an effort to drive the serpentining narrow roads and hunt for parking becomes immediately apparent after your ticket is scanned and you are welcomed into this art lovers Aladin's cave.
You can line up at the door to buy tickets with so many others or purchase them online and arrive and enter without waiting. On your first visit, it is hard to comprehend the scale of this place. Not often have I used the word cavernous for its intended purpose, yet I feel I have it bang on this time. Moving past the entrance into this vast dark space can feel daunting, and I was just a little hesitant on my first visit. However, when the exhibition begins and the music paired with perfection plays, you are cast away to another dimension. It is your choice to find a place to sit or wander to your heart's content. Over the years, we have enjoyed Van Gogh, Kandinsky, Cezanne, & Klein exhibitions, to name a few. Enjoy the collection not once but twice. Maybe take a break for an espresso or glass of wine at the underground cafe and then return to enjoy it again. This experience will live with you, so make sure you get as much of it as possible. I hope there is a time when you get a chance to visit Carrières des Lumières. I would really like to be the one you remember fondly for the tip!
Please leave a comment if you have a moment; I am always happy to hear from you.
Live well!
Mark
Link to the venue. https://www.carrieres-lumieres.com/en
A LUBERON LUNCH.
I have been back in the south of France for nearly a week now. Uncharacteristically, at no time since I arrived have I even thought about taking a camera out from my bag. This trip has been different. This trip has been more about regular meetings with our interior designer and driving from nearby village to nearby village to tour and consider some of her most recent commissions.
A wonderful byproduct of these little adventures has been the opportunity to sample some of the most wonderful local lunchtime cuisine. Each meal has been clearly prepared by a highly skilled and experienced gastronomic professional. As with every Provençal restaurant, the experience begins when you are greeted at the door by the front of house staff. Their smiles, courteousness and impecable manners are exactly what you hope for every time you dine out, no matter where or when. It’s always best to choose your meal by what is suggested by table staff. It seems only a fool (and I have been a fool many times in the past) would fail to accept a suggestion that ensures only the freshest and most in season choices find their way to your table. I hope to find time for my camera later in the week, but for now I leave you with the memories of a late lunch or two.
Going forward, we have a couple of lovely day trips planned. Then on Thursday we take our leave from Bonnieux and travel north from Avignon by train for 36 hours of jam packed fun in Paris. Until then, I wish for your week to be as full and enjoyable as ours hopes to be.
Please leave a short comment if you get a chance. I am very happy to hear from people far and wide!
Live well!
Mark.
ONLY MAD DOGS & ENGLISHMEN.
I am writing todays blog while hunkered down inside a fully shuttered Provençal village house. Outside, the wind is gusting at a swift measure of knots. This is my first really nasty “Mistral”. Rudyard Kipling was the man responsible for today’s title. It is the passage from his book “Kim” written in 1901 which refers to devils, madness and Englishmen that proved timeless. Kipling’s words later prompted Noël Coward to use them along with going out in the noon day sun as lyrics for his 1931 musical cabaret number. What is left to explain now is why I have stolen it for this tale of misadventure. The simple answer is, yesterday, this Englishman (by birth) felt like a wee bit of a physical challenge. So, just before noon, I put on my bright red wind breaker (more on that later) and left the house on foot bound for the village across the valley. There are several tracks that one can take to get from Bonnieux to Lacoste. Given yesterdays weather, I thought staying off the trails and sticking to the road might be best to keep out of ankle deep mud. Along with wearing the bright red jacket, staying out of the trees was the second life saving decision I made without even realizing it.
I may have mentioned in earlier blogs that it is wild boar hunting season in the Luberon. Unlike back home where the vast majority of hunting goes on far from any population or paved roads, here in France safety does not come first. First comes having enough wine for the after party. Second comes having enough diesel in the white Renault Kangoo mini-van for the hunter, his weapons and a first class lunch. Third and most importantly is having enough mad dogs to scent, chase, and run down these not so elusive Sanglier (wild boar). Now, when I say mad dogs, I don’t mean rabid or distempered, I mean really fucking angry. These dogs have seen how aggressive and offensive these boars can get and what kind of damage their tusks can do when the chips are down.
I was not even 100 meters along the road from Bonnieux when I was nearly run down by a speeding Kangoo. It was not more than 200 meters further when I was deafened by the packs of hunting dogs. I never quite laid eyes on them but they seemed to be moving in the same direction I was. Every 30 seconds or so their incessant barking became quite high pitched. Those changes were typically followed by one or more rifle shots and then moments of silence. The French hunters all wear bright orange. The wild boars are the colour of the bush and scrub. I was thankfully dressed like a shitty dollar store Santa in bright red. Next time I make fun of Donald T. I will have to remember his genius & consider using the orange spray tan myself. It certainly has prevented him from being shot in any wayward hunting accidents.
My return journey was near enough 17 kilometres. For all of it, save my time wandering in a very quiet and coffee free Lacoste, the dogs bayed and gun shots rang out through the valley. I do love Lacoste. The art college and its student galleries. The former home of both the Marquis de Sade and Pierre Cardin is a very cool place. Sadly, both cafes in Lacoste were closed for refurb and I was forced to turn back to Bonnieux through bandit country. This unfortunate decision had to be made much too soon and without even the whiff of a double espresso.
Just over an hour later I was home and stretching. I popped into Apt for a few groceries an hour or so later and returned to use the air fryer to prepare a dinner fit for a survivor. It’s not easy making it across miles of open country under fire. It is these kind of harrowing stories that fill the pages of dozens of books by former SAS commandos. The stuff of Chris Ryan or Andy McNab. I’ve always fancied the life of Ernest Hemmigway. I realize running with the bulls in Pamplona is not even close to briskly walking aside mad dogs in the Luberon, but you have to start somewhere. My last stolen quote from Kipling is as follows, “This is a brief life, but in its brevity it offers us some splendid moments, some meaningful adventures.”.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
Live well!
Mark
Here is a link to a recent article regarding hunting in France! https://www.rfi.fr/en/france/20211204-tribute-to-victims-of-hunting-accidents-as-french-senate-begins-inquiry
p.s. all images except the last two taken with the Leica Q2
BONNIEUX, FROM THE ROAD TO LACOSTE
THE TOP CHURCH THROUGH THE TREES.
THE BAT CAVE HAS NEVER LOOKED SO SCRUFFY.
IMAGE BORROWED FROM GOOGLE.
IMAGE BORROWED FROM GOOGLE
GET UP! GET OUT OF BED! THERE’S GONNA BE A CLOUD INVERSION!
This morning I invoked a recently learned life hack I heard on a podcast. Mel Robbins (NO, NOT TONY ROBBINS) said if you are having a hard time motivating yourself to do something, then you should use the 5 second rule. Simply put, just count down from 5. 5-4-3-2-1 and away you go. Your mind commits you at that point to what you want or need to accomplish. Whether you feel lazy or apprehensive, 5-4-3-2-1 tells your brain you have committed. Now this could be psycho-babble but I swear to god it works for me.
This morning at 7:30 it was pitch black outside but I had studied the weather for daybreak and noticed that there may be a decent chance of a cloud inversion in the valley. Sunrise was at 8:10 so I 5-4-3-2-1’d and got to my feet, cleaned up my act and grabbed the camera and tripod. After what happened a few days ago when the fog was thick and I ended up in Maubec, this morning was gonna be a different kettle of fish.
I got as high I could and watched the end of the blue hour give way to golden. I have committed to never let a day pass while I’m here without getting in my 10,000 or more steps. What better way to kick that off this morning than to climb 400 or so stone steps up to the highest point in the village. That slog got me up to the top church, and with that a bird’s eye view of the Luberon Valley. The inversion didn’t last for long but it gave way beautifully to the morning sun trying its hardest to warm stone walls and terracotta roof tiles. The church bells rang on cue for the top of the hour and all I needed was a light sweater given the ambient temperature.
When I came back down into the village below I walked home through the Friday market. Much smaller than during the summer months, but everything you could need was on hand in the way of fresh vegetables, meat, fish and cheese. Even my favourite carpet and pillow cover salesman was set up for business. He spotted me coming from a distance and was on me like white on rice to show off his new wares. What he really wanted to know was where Deanna was, because she loves to pay retail!
Tonight brings New Years eve but most of the local restaurants are closed. Good and bad really. For those that felt like an extremely good meal, must now take on those duties themselves. On the other hand, it becomes a great opportunity to enjoy your family with a special meal in front of the fire at home. As I am in the “all by my lonesome camp” on this trip, a night at an extremely good restaurant was what the doctor ordered. Oh well, a selection of local sausage and goat cheeses will suffice and obviously pair well with a spot of local red. I will more than likely be fast asleep hours before midnight ticks over to 2022 anyway. I am not sure what this afternoon will bring but it will require a ton of walking to get me over the daily line. Here are a few early morning images captured while up high searching for low cloud. Happy New Year from Bonnieux! All the best in 2022..
Live well.
Mark
Please leave a comment if you have time.
MY 9TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. BEAUTIFUL MAUBEC AND HAVE YOU READ THE NEWS TODAY?
MAUBEC VILLAGE
I got up early this morning because the forecast predicted clear skies and a cloud inversion down in the valley. I grabbed the camera and tripod and climbed to the top of the village with high hopes. Unfortunately, hopes dashed quite quickly upon arrival at the Haute Eglise. The fog was thick, and it looked like hours before it would clear. By that time, I would have sadly missed the spectacular light of sunrise.
I quickly decided what needed to be done was to minimize my to-do list before the New Year arrived. As of this morning, my top two on the list were to pay my municipal taxes and my home insurance. Taxes are collected at the government office in Apt, and my Allianz insurance broker is in a small town 20 minutes away in the opposite direction. So I tried the taxes first and arrived early enough to be first in line when the miserable-looking middle-aged lady unlocked the door and grunted, what do you want (en Francais)?
Less than 60 seconds later, I was ushered from the office because I did not have the one document that miserable Marie required to make this transaction possible today. So I skipped back to the psycho mobile AKA the "RENAULT MEGANE" and began the short journey home to Bonnieux to see if the notaire that looked after the sale of our place had the form La Miserable grunted for.
Job done & a big thanks to Quenton's legal secretary. It seemed like the best thing to do then was not return from where I just left, but instead to pay Nathalie a visit at Allianz. Fifteen minutes later, my TD Visa was racking up a few more Aeroplan points. So now what? Maubec is on the way home. I should drop by and wander the village, stop for an espresso and read La Provence. La Provence is the primary newspaper for the region and is published and printed in Marseille. Marseille is the second biggest city in France, so I was expecting the worst as I thumbed through today’s crime section.
As expected it was terrible. Way worse than I had predicted. We who spend most of our time in the southwest corner of British Columbia are used to reading about gangland murders, junkies robbing everything that moves or stands still. Thefts from unsuspecting homes & yards of everyday tax paying homeowners. Pensioners are being thrown to the ground for their purses. But in Provence, it gets way worse. I won't even try to paraphrase the article I read this morning over coffee, but sufficed to say it's not pretty. Take a deep breath. If you are squeamish, perhaps today is not the day to continue this blog.
Words do fail me. I hope Logotto recovers from the trauma of this most horrific experience. I also hope that those who can stomach today's crime blotter will later enjoy the photos of Maubec. She's a peach!
Please leave a comment if you have time.
Live well!
All photos were captured with the Leica Q2.
If you were able to get though that. Here are some photos of this morning’s coffee spot!
HE ASKED WHY I WAS PHOTOGRAPHING HIS HEDGE.
LA CANTANTE!
JUST A SINGLE FAMILY HOME.
THE VILLAGE GREEN.
MY DOOR FETISH.
COME JULY THIS FIELD WILL BE VIVID PURPLE.
ONE DAY I WILL OWN ONE OF THOSE!
A SEA OF GREEN.
READY FOR VINES….
YOU SHALL NOT PASS!
BACK IN BLACK AND WHITE (BONNIEUX)
This has not been easy. We planned a family Christmas here in France several months ago. We watched for flights and made sure to create itineraries that worked for all six of us. There was no such thing as Omicron when we were all booked and the arrangements were made. Life was as normal as it could be in November. Even though the two year long Covid nightmare was still haunting us, there was no reason to cancel what we imagined to be a perfect way to meet and enjoy the trappings of an understated provencal Noël.
And then the latest and greatest variant was thrust among us. We were left in limbo to see how things would evolve and what that was going to mean for those of us in Canada with plans to travel to France. Each of our sons had different work and school commitments, and with those came pressures around being covid free upon return to Canada. All of these issues needed to be addressed, but I also felt the importance of getting over here to check on the house and make sure all was well. I know that seems frivolous to some, and I could have probably assumed, given the place is well over 250 years old, it was probably going to be just fine. I had not been back to France since the end of September, so the distance and the change in seasons kept me worrying that something with the house could have gone wrong. I have not slept well for the last couple of weeks, tossing and turning & thinking that putting off this visit was tantamount to throwing away our retirement investment.
So off I went. I stood in line at YVR to get my must-have antigen test. Next, I spent a few hours in the Air Canada lounge. Then, I boarded my Lufthansa flight to Munich where I ate, drank & slept like a baby for the entire duration. My connector to Marseille was not for six hours after I arrived in Germany, so I wandered duty-free and then took up residence in the Lufthansa business lounge. There, I ate and drank a little bit more of every German food and wine on offer. It was lovely and I am now a huge fan of Spätzle.
My flight to Marseille was late leaving Munich but with a good tailwind over the Alps we arrived almost on time. I ran to passport control (they never asked for my covid passport or negative antigen test) and then I hustled to Avis to pick up my Renault Megane. For those of you that followed my adventures on this blog last summer, rest assured that I am going to need to see about my psychiatric condition ASAP. It was just 15 minutes until Christmas day became official, and three smiling Avis employees were waiting for me to pick up my keys before they closed. They all yelled Joyeux Noël Mr. Catto as I ran in the door, and that was an awesome greeting after such a long trip.
I loaded the car and set off with the Sat Nav screaming at me in French. I had a couple of small redirects along the way, but overall it was a fantastic festive and pretty drive through several small villages on my way to Bonnieux. To be the only car on the very narrow mountain roads was a new experience for me. The summer is drastically different around here. But it was one in the morning on Christmas day, and I was nearly home.
https://youtu.be/EvDxSW8mzvU (Journey’s soundtrack)
As I arrived in our village, I was treated to lovely silver decorations strung across the village lanes from the rooftops. There was no mistaking the season and what it clearly means to the locals.
The house was freezing when I got the shutters and front door open. I made my way through every room, turning on the new electric heaters we had installed in the new year but never had the reason to turn them on last summer. It has taken nearly two full days to warm this old stone village house, but now I am toasty and enjoying the place to the fullest. Yesterday was slim pickings for any kind of food. Thank god for France's most civilized of laws ensuring that every french citizen can not be deprived of their baguettes etc on any day of the year. I confirmed that the local Boulangerie was open for 3 hours on Christmas morning. A massive carb coma ensued, and it has taken me well over 24 hours and a ton of exercise to ward off the effects of pain au chocolat.
I slept well on Christmas night, and this morning, I was woken by the phone. After a workout, and a quick shower I jumped in the car to find out if the Sunday farmers market in nearby Coustellet was still going on, given the holiday. The sun was shining, and the diesel fumes from the Renault were vaguely familiar and marginally intoxicating. Fifteen minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised to find several farmers selling their produce in the local market parking lot. I hit the goat cheese stand like a Mac truck and left with quite a selection. As I wandered to the next stall for some Mediterranean treats, I failed to see that the lady's stall awning was about 5'11", and as I am 6'2', the ensuing head gash stopped bleeding around 15 minutes later.
I shook off the concussion as best as I could and then moved on to the nearby Super U grocery store for some bits for dinner. I am now safely home, and the fridge is no longer empty. I went out with my camera for a few hours this morning and and then again later this evening and as a result put on a few thousand steps. The weather was fantastic, and the coffee at Cafe Bonalis was even better. I made a reservation there for tomorrow night at 7:30. The menu outside convinced me that truffle and duck ravioli followed by tiramisu could be the OMAD of the week. I wish Deanna, Mac, Angus, Liam and Allistair were here. Unfortunately, FaceTime will just have to do over the remainder of these holidays.
Provencal life is still good!
Live well and leave a comment if you have a moment.
Mark
LUNCH AT LA PETITE HISTOIRE.
Gargas brings the location, and the two-man band in front and back of the house provides the experience. Today's visit was my second to La Petite Histoire. The first occasion was a couple of years ago with Dale on the heels of our Turkey and Isreal trip. That was for dinner, and I was presented with a tomahawk steak bigger than my arm. Dale had a similarly sized octopus tentacle.
Today was for lunch, as the title indicates, and there were several option combinations that you can see on the menu in the photograph above. My meal was tremendous, and I am already looking forward to my next visit as a result. You will notice a chocolate number at the end. I had to. My face was so sore from yesterday. I had a cheeky beer and an incredible espresso to round out the 2 hours I spent with the happy, professional staff who double as co-owners. I would recommend a visit without any hesitation.
Live well!
Mark
p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica Q2.
Ravioli
Beef with chorizo risotto and red wine demi glaze.
Chocolate Tarte
